


Five times Olivier Armstrong said "dare" and one time she said "truth."

by orphan_account



Series: Fullmetal Femslash February 2014 [6]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/F, Femslash, Femslash Challenge 2014, Femslash February, Kink Exploration, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Well there's some plot but it's mostly character development.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 13:24:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Truth,” said Riza Hawkeye suddenly over the wine flutes, prompting Madame Christmas to raise a finely stenciled eyebrow in the two women’s general direction, “or dare.”</p><p>Curling her pink mouth over her glass, Olivier Mira Armstrong left a vibrant smudge of lipstick on the rim. “Being the aggressive one for once?”</p><p>“Sir,” Hawkeye continued in that matter-of-fact solemnity with its occasionally sardonic twinge that drove the general insane in the insolent respect and respectful insolence the timbre symbolised, “if you feel uncomfortable, we don’t have to, sir.”</p><p>Armstrong tipped her head back and downed the entirety of the glass. She felt, somehow, that she would need it. Then she regarded the thin-lipped blonde sniper seated across from her within the new light of a fifth or sixth layer of intoxication. “Dare.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five times Olivier Armstrong said "dare" and one time she said "truth."

**Author's Note:**

> Killing two birds with one stone. Written for the prompt: "you know what? olivier/riza. give it to me babe." Written for Femslash February. Prompt G4 on my bingo card, "Truth or Dare".
> 
> Set sometime post-canon.
> 
> As it turns out, Olivier Armstrong's ENTj and Riza Hawkeye's ISFj personality typing make them perfect matches to one another.

“Truth,” said Riza Hawkeye suddenly over the wine flutes, prompting Madame Christmas to raise a finely stenciled eyebrow in the two women’s general direction, “or dare.”

Curling her pink mouth over her glass, Olivier Mira Armstrong left a vibrant smudge of lipstick on the rim. “Being the aggressive one for once?”

“Sir,” Hawkeye continued in that matter-of-fact solemnity with its occasionally sardonic twinge that drove the general insane in the insolent respect and respectful insolence the timbre symbolised, “if you feel uncomfortable, we don’t have to, sir.”

Armstrong tipped her head back and downed the entirety of the glass. She felt, somehow, that she would need it. Then she regarded the thin-lipped blonde sniper seated across from her within the new light of a fifth or sixth layer of intoxication. “Dare.”

By the night’s end she ended up face-down, pressed suffocatingly into the bed with a pillow clenched between her aching teeth, wrists clamped together at the small of her back, kneeling on the mattress with her rear raised high into the air while Hawkeye gripped her flanks with powerful hands calloused from years of toting fourteen kilograms of lead and steel. Afterwards Hawkeye carefully checked her over, her gaze ravenous even in its impassivity, assisted her shower, cleaned up for the both of them.

She awoke the following morning bruised, sore, and sticky with remnants of dried lube. Entirely nude. In a bed that smelled of dust and sex. When she sat up slowly, examining the newfound throbbing of her innards, she found herself alone in the dark. Painkillers and a change of clothes awaited her on the bedside drawer. Showering again, she exited the back of the Christmas bar to discover that the night had been paid for in full along with a breakfast. And a free dinner that night.

The men made no comment on the croaking nature of her voice, her throat torn from the sheer intensity of her moans.

A dinner. Free, even. Wonder of wonders. Of course Armstrong went, either because Central had transformed her into a damned fool, or because she suddenly understood Mustang’s devotion and continual steamroller of praise to his brilliant lieutenant after all.

 

“Truth or dare.”

“Dare,” Armstrong answered, and a foreign thrill of fear shivered down her spine. Bound up in straps of leather, hanging from a ceiling somehow supporting her weight, the general screamed at the imbalance of power while the lieutenant left crimson marks on the heat between Armstrong’s thighs wrenched apart by the bondage. Helpless, subordinate, and wetter than she could remember.

Hawkeye smeared ointment on the reddish stripes that marked where the straps had criss-crossed her form and scolded her. “Tell me if you’re uncomfortable next time, sir.”

 _Sir_. Armstrong debated between kissing her and killing her.

 

“Truth or dare.”

“Dare.”

She played the horse. Bent over on her hands and knees, she lapped at the bowl of clean water while the muscles of her buttocks clenched around the horse-tail plug. The coarse fingers stroked her mane. Condescending words aroused her beyond measure: _good girl, who’s a good girl, that’s right, you’re gonna let Mama ride you, ready to gallop, ready to ride hard and fast and free?_ Even before Hawkeye donned the strap-on and rode her into a senseless stupor of warm limbs and melted insides, she had somehow gotten off twice.

 

“Truth or dare.”

“Dare.”

The whip bit into her skin and she cried for more. Slipping her tongue in and out of Hawkeye’s folds with a desperation mingling on an orgasmic meltdown, Armstrong clawed red streaks into the sniper’s thighs. “It’s been two _hours_. Please. _Please_ let me come. _Please_.”

Hawkeye arched an eyebrow. “Not until you finish your work, sir. You’ve a deadline.” Armstrong’s shoulder exploded in blissful agony; she bent her head down. The lieutenant climaxed, straining against her face and coating her cheeks in sweet fluid. With the next crack of the whip the general screamed hard enough to tear her vocal cords.

Her men said nothing. Of course, she could barely say anything in return.

 

“Truth or dare.”

“Dare.”

“Since you complained about the length last time, sir,” Hawkeye noted after she had secured the general’s wrists and ankles to the bed, spread eagled before her and prepared as a dish from the finest restaurant in Creta, “we’ll be shooting for four hours tonight.”

Four excruciating hours that blurred the border of pain and pleasure, and then a series of _five orgasms_ so quick and rapid in succession that Armstrong could not stir a single slothful sinew. At her lack of response Hawkeye shook her, slapped her, screamed into her ear. The wild look in the tea-grey of her miniscule rim of irises around the stark pits of her pupils spoke less of _fuckbuddy_ and more, much more, of—of _lo_ —of something else. Armstrong found her tongue beneath her heart and returned it to her mouth. “I’m fine,” she whispered huskily.

The sniper saluted her, her expression unreadable. her posture stiff, her voice stiffer. “I’ll pay for breakfast, sir. Once you are ready for a shower, I will gladly provide assistance.”

Hawkeye left. Armstrong _felt_ the absence palpable in the heavy air. As though the golden girl could temporarily strip away the gravity that flattened her to the floor and pushed her heart under her feet.

Tears. At the corners of _her_ eyes. _Hers_.

And they said alchemists could work miracles.

 

“Truth,” said Riza Hawkeye suddenly over the wine flutes, prompting Madame Christmas to raise a finely stenciled eyebrow in the two women’s general direction, “or dare.”

Curling her pink mouth over her glass, Olivier Mira Armstrong left a vibrant smudge of lipstick on the rim, Olivier Mira Armstrong inclined her head. “Truth.”

Hawkeye’s eyes darkened. The sable of her pupils engorged upon the tea-grey. “Truth?” Her eyelids lowered to a sultry half-mast. Armstrong shifted in her seat. Yet, no, not sultry. Questioning. Glancing into the rippling surface of her drink, the lieutenant kneaded her lower lip in her rare moment of uncertainty.

Despite their relations, Armstrong uncertainly neared her hand to Hawkeye’s as though unsure if she’d the right to a touch not entirely between the sheets and not entirely in the streets. The sniper bridged the distance. Her larger, rougher fingers closed perfectly over Armstrong’s smaller, finer; the sensation stole the breath from her lungs and she considered filing for damages. “What, after all of these fucking shenanigans that left me gasping for air and begging for my life, _this_ is the cat that got your tongue?”

“Do you love me?”

Silence. Absolute, heavy, still. A battlefield after the victors had marched home and the scarcity of waters has closed off the throats of the defeated. The contact of their flesh and flesh the sole point of warmth in the field of ice.

Ah. Ice. Her home. Ice, and quiet, and solitude—these she understood, these she ruled over with a fist harder than automail. A kingdom of isolation. Of _ice-_ olation. And the possibility of the cold melting into spring—

“Yes.” Armstrong never suspected, or thought, or wondered. She _knew_. And if she didn’t know, she _found out_. So when she crunched through the arctic ice frozen in her core, what she discovered at last spilling forth to fill her palms surprised her more than she thought it would. “I love you.”

The grip on her fingers amplified to an almost painful extent, but she’d survived force without so much as a flutter of the eyelids. Yet the instant Hawkeye smiled, the general’s heart shattered open. The raw, pulsating scarlet burned her from the inside out, stung tears in her eyes.

But she would be all right. Hawkeye, _her_ Hawkeye, would glue the pieces back together again with a dab of liquid gold.


End file.
